The Weeks Away
by Omenkrow
Summary: The story of Ron's turmoil and self-reflection during the weeks he's away from Harry and Hermione in HP:Deathly Hallows. Ron battles his fears and insecurities when he's left to nothing but his own thoughts. WIP


**CHAPTER 1** |_ Ron's Departure_

_Col_d rain fell around him as a harsh wind rustled the trees of the riverbank. He was almost there. Something felt as though it had snapped tonight, had broken, but he did not care. Blind fury fueled his gait, commanding his brain to put one foot in front of the other as his legs willingly obliged. Only one absolute thought registered in this moment: he wanted — needed — to get the hell out of here; away from the tent, away from the bloody locket, but most of all, away from _them_. Apparently Harry didn't even have a plan! How the hell does that work out, did Dumbledore really expect the three of them to just wing it? Well they could do it without him. They never needed him. Hermione never wanted him… She chose _him_! He should have known! How stupid to delude himself, to believe that there was _ever_ anything there! Almost there now…

"Ron!"

He crossed the barrier of the protective enchantments. They served as a bubble that bonded the three of them as one unit, a symbol and shield that kept them in their own little world. That world would go on without him, he knew. Harry and Hermione could go on and be brilliant without him — he was only ever an obstacle in their way, after all. Leaving was the best thing he could do for them. Sod it all…

"_RON!"_

Even though it should've been muffled by the wards that stood just behind him, Ron heard it clearly this time: his name called desperately, a strangled shriek amongst the tattoo of the rain upon the river. Mother Nature lay deafened, rain and wind forgotten, as the sound of his name from her lips carried to him. Recognition pierced like a needle through the haze of his anger. He would know Hermione's voice anywhere. He could've turned around and drank in her features; her eyes would bore into his and her wild hair would surely be clinging to her face in this rain — but he didn't, couldn't. It would hurt too much.

Unsure of his destination, Ron turned on the spot and was gone.

Darkness engulfed him. He felt nothing, the sensations of Disapparation were numbing. Ron realized belatedly that the darkness had subsided only because his body reminded itself that it needed air to breathe. Dead leaves and twigs crunched underneath as he pushed himself to his knees, trembling hands bracing his weight. Short pants escaped him. His lungs felt as though they had been crushed, flattened, but there settled a more monolithic weight in his chest that ached even more.

His body began shaking uncontrollably. It wasn't raining here but entirely new sensations were pounding against his being. Sobs could've been escaping him, but he felt too dazed to discern whether or not he was simply dripping rainwater. His head felt like it was spinning as his short pants became gasps, and he worked to calm himself, to remember to breathe: _in, out_. Twinges of regret smashed into him with the force of bludgers, as comprehension dawned in fragments. _He left them_. Regret mixed in a vile brew with months of pent-up emotions, converging to explode into guilt, and then he clearly felt frustrated tears prick his eyes now, unable to stop them as they fell uselessly. Apparation seemed to have purged him of any semblance of anger. Now he only felt drained, the adrenaline having left his system.

Ron pounded the dirt and leaves furiously, a feeble outlet for the emotions surging inside of him. _What the sodding hell was he doing? _He needed to get back to the tent, to Harry and Hermione… A voice rang through the darkness from some vague location, a siren that snapped Ron to reality.

"Over 'ere! I swear I 'eard 'em Apparating!"

"All right! Keep your robes on, we're coming!" a second, more gruff voice called back lazily.

Ron's stomach flipped over. He tensed, becoming acutely aware of his surroundings: He had Disapparated into some sort of forest. Thin, tall trees were peppered around him, and only shafts of moonlight that broke through the canopy overhead provided any source of light. His rucksack hung forgotten on his left arm, and his wand had left his grasp at some point. Leaves rustled louder and closer around Ron as he fumbled desperately on the ground for his wand.

"Oi, you there! Freeze because we don't care who we curse down! You got five wands pointed on you so don't even think of running!"

Before Ron could react, a stomp between his shoulder blades sent him crashing into the ground. He was unceremoniously hoisted to his feet, as someone restrained him, his arms crossed tightly behind his back and his head in a firm lock that would have made Charlie himself proud. Not yet fully recovered from the post-Apparation vertigo, Ron sensed — and in the case of the one holding him, could _smell_ the putrid stench emanating from him — rather than saw his attackers.

As his senses gradually returned, Ron saw that there, sure enough, were four lit wands that pierced through the darkness and four wizards bathed in its luminescent cloud peering at him curiously. One of them began searching his rucksack while another crouched a few feet to Ron's right, extracting his wand from the soil and examining it as if it were a new toy.

"Just who the ruddy hell are you lot?" Ron spat viciously, the anger that had subsided just moments ago coming back in full force, as he struggled against the firm lock he was in.

Ron braced himself this time as a blow connected with his diaphragm and the air left his lungs.

Unfazed, a short bloke snorted. "Aha, I told you! And 'ere you was goin' ta pass up a possible capture! Some captain you are Lynch —"

"That's enough cheek out of you, Gibbons," said Lynch, the owner of the gruff voice, as he threw Ron's rucksack onto the ground. "Nothing I can find in there, just a sleeping bag and some clothes."

"Reckon we'll nab a bag of sickles for this 'un at the Ministry, though?" the man that extracted his wand said excitedly as he gave Ron a once over. "Mind, he's a tall bloke, but looks like he could be Hogwarts age to me!"

"Who the hell are you?" Ron tried again, but remembered something. Realization slowly came to him in snippets of memories. He had read notes while he searching Yaxley's office: bounty hunters called snatchers… blood traitors and runaway Muggle-borns… for money at the Ministry…

Lynch rounded on Ron. "We'll be asking the questions around here, ginger. And our first question: What is your name, cur?"

Ron racked his brain for a cover; nighttime… night… knight… knight bus… "Stan Shunpike."

"And Blood-status?"

"Pure-blood," said Ron more confidently this time, hoping the façade would hold some ground.

"Easy enough to check then… Gibbons, the list."

The snatcher produced a large scroll and scanned it. "T'ain't no Stan Shunpike on 'ere — but wait a second, Shunpike… Ain't 'e the bloke that use'ta run that ol' bus down in London? The 'ell was the name of it, the — ?"

"The Knight Bus," Ron provided, thinking fast. "We'd take people all over and — and other things."

A fourth, taller snatcher looked at Ron with wide eyes. "Wait, Shunpike… He reports to You-Know-Who himself don't he!" he said in a mixture of awe and fear, taking a step back from Ron.

"Now wait a bloody minute," Ebbons started, "just 'cos 'e can talk up a cover don't mean nothin'. We could 'ave a Muggle-born on our 'ands!"

Despite Ron's mounting sense of panic, he tried his luck and said, "I _am_ Stan Shunpike, gerrof me before I" — he was unable to finish as he was cut off with another blow, this time to the face; a sickening crack echoed in Ron's ears, and he could feel warm blood drip down his chin — "_fucggh_…"

Lynch yanked the scroll from the snatcher and scanned it with a stony expression. The short bloke fixed Ron with a challenging glare, while the other two seemed more wary now. Ron also noticed that the restraining hold he was in had gone imperceptibly lax.

"I ain't risking it," said the tall snatcher, "it ain't worth it, just let him go —"

"No! Not this time you bloody pansy!" Ebbons interrupted, turning his glare on him. "We ain't losing another one 'cos of you!" He pointed a stubby finger at the snatcher that took Ron's wand and said, "Or you! T'ain't no Stan Shunpike we got 'ere!"

"It doesn't matter you sodding git!" said the tall snatcher. "A few sickles ain't worth risking our hides for — I ain't dealing with someone who could be dealing with the Dark Lord!"

"And just what the bloody 'ell would Shunpike be doing out in some forest, huh?"

"Trabellin' — I bas jus' trabellin'," Ron wheezed weakly, finding it excruciatingly painful to move his face at all.

Ignoring them, Lynch turned to Ron, and when he spoke his voice was menacingly low. "What is your name, boy? _No games_," he said, prodding his heated wand-tip to Ron's forehead.

Ron gulped as his stomach gave another churn. Their captain may have seen past his weak cover, but he would not be deterred. Before he could answer to defend his identity, even louder shouts broke out once more from the two snatchers. He watched the row over the captain's shoulder in growing amusement — the tall bloke had a good two heads over Gibbons and was obviously using that fact to tower of him — and hope. The two snatchers were squaring up to each other over Ron's identity, and that could buy him some valuable time. Lynch was forced to do a double-take behind his back. He moved in to intervene before his men turned on each other.

"Break it up, you bloody gits!"

"He works for the Dark Lord!"

"Shunpike wouldn't be out in no bleeding forest!"

"Stop the childish bickering!"

"Are you trying to get us all killed?"

"You always do this you sodding coward —_ oi!_"

Ron tuned them out as the row erupted into what Professor McGonagall would refer to as "Muggle dueling" to formulate a plan, the three snatchers momentarily distracted. As heated words and jabs were exchanged by the two snatchers, the one holding him chuckled, and his hold loosened ever more slightly. Observing the snatcher that had extracted his wand, Ron saw that he seemed thoroughly engrossed in the sight before him. He could not allow the opportune moment to go unchecked.

Relaxing his body by giving up any hint of resistance, the snatcher unconsciously followed suit. Ron figured he would probably only get one chance at this, so he steeled himself for what he was about to do. A moment passed before the snatcher gave another chuckle.

With a sudden burst of energy Ron yanked his right arm free, elbowed the snatcher square in the stomach with all his might, smashed the back of his head into the snatcher's face with equal fervor, and wrestled his wand out of his hands in rapid succession. The snatcher fell backwards to the ground in a heap.

Not wasting a second to spare, Ron turned the pilfered wand on the still-dazed snatcher that had extracted his own wand and shot a quick _Expelliarmus. _His left hand went for his rucksack, and as he caught his wand as it soared through the air with his right, he turned on the spot in a flash, the three other snatchers left frozen comically in mid-action staring dumbfounded at the spot he had Disapparated from.

The sensations of Disapparition pressed in on him for the second time that night, and Ron could clearly feel them this time — that he would surely suffocate. The three D's came to him suddenly, and he could faintly hear Hermione chiding him: _"Destination, Determination, and Deliberation."_ With a great effort he drilled those words into his head — he never had been the best at Apparition. The sensations lifted and he fell on wet earth with a thud, but the compression seemed to linger. His lungs felt that they had been ripped away from his body. He wheezed desperately for air, writhing on muddy earth as cold rain fell around him.

Gradually, Ron got control of his airways, and struggled to sit up. Blood rushed to his head at the exertion and he was almost knocked back down but caught himself with trembling hands. Something felt strange, though. His limbs were definitely still there, but he could not help but feel as though he had left some part of himself in that forest.

And then, looking at the world from his new position, he realized the destination he had willed: their tent, the riverbank, Harry, Hermione. Ron scanned the area for any semblance of familiarity. The coniferous trees and mountains looked familiar, and the leaf-strewn river was there… but it looked much thinner here. Or was it thicker? The exhaustion from Disapparition clouded his mind like a thick fog; rational thinking and control of his senses felt beyond him. The world felt like it was spinning, crashing around him, but there shined one thought. He needed to find Harry and Hermione.

Ron shakily clambered to his feet. An unfamiliar short, dark wand was clutched in his left hand and he vaguely stuffed it into his jeans, not sparing the energy to examine it. He needed to invest his efforts into finding them, to get back to that tent… But then he'd have to face that locket… And should he even return? Hermione chose Harry —_ No_, he told himself vehemently, his first priority _has_ to be finding them, to assure them he was with them until the very end. But then what would he say? Would they even want him back?

Bitter scenarios played like a broken record; he could practically hear the locket whispering in his ear, invading his thoughts, but he pushed it away. He felt he would drop unconscious if he kept dwelling on those thoughts in his state, so he began moving down the riverbank blindly towards some unknown but familiar destination. A destination that would lead him back to them…

The river twisted and turned, as Ron traced along it. But as time went on, the rain and wind battered harder and heavier on both the forest and his resolve. He could hardly see through the haziness. Midnight darkness set the backdrop for his search and coupled with the unfaltering pouring of the rain, it left Ron feeling panicked and disoriented. His wandlight lay feeble in his hands against the darkness, no better than a wet match. He trudged through nonetheless, pebbles and mud crunching under each step, for what had to be an hour at the least, but he couldn't tell. He crossed what felt like miles but could truly have been much less. Ron cursed himself for being such a tit at Apparating. How far did he actually Apparate from their location? Was he even going in the correct direction?

No tent beckoned him, nor had he spotted a speck of raven-black hair or a bushy, brown mane, or any signs of anything, really — the only results he yielded were passing what looked like the same tree an infinite amount of times. Every step he was taking was beginning to leave him feeling increasingly exhausted. If he did not rest soon, Ron was sure he would collapse. His knees now threatened to buckle under his weight, his breaths were coming out labored, and he was building up what felt like one hell of a headache: he had pushed himself to the extreme levels of exhaustion. That's what happens to a tit whose rubbish at long-distance Apparating — who did it twice no less, thought Ron bitterly to himself.

After what felt like ages, he swore angrily under his breath and conceded defeat. The prospect of rest won out. He resolved to finding them in the morning, when he had somewhat regained his strength. Doubts surged in his mind of how his arrival would play out, but he dispelled them once more. He'd deal with it when the time came tomorrow. In a few hours, in fact.

Moving away from the river and towards the cover of the forest, he found suitable enough refuge in an area of thick trees where the rain didn't meet the ground as heavily (he had at least enough brainpower to surmise that being discovered having drowned in his sleep wasn't exactly the way he wanted to go) for the river would surely rise by morning. The ground wasn't remotely dry upon further inspection, and he was sure he'd regret it in the morning, but he was beyond caring at this point.

Ron extracted his sleeping bag from his rucksack and entered it with his body sore, cold, and wet. A grim lullaby replayed in his head: Find Harry and Hermione; finish what Dumbledore started. A darkness engulfed him that this time he greeted freely.

* * *

><p>When Ron awoke hours later in a soggy and muddy sleeping bag, he felt that only a few short minutes had passed. The grey-blue tint that had fallen on the riverbank told otherwise, however. As a growl escaped his stomach, Ron stupidly wondered what Hermione had fixed up for breakfast today — and then the night's events hit him like a stinging jinx to the bollocks. <em>He left.<em> The argument echoed in his head, and then Hermione calling his name jolted him wide awake. He was shivering, his muscles ached, and he was sure he had picked up a nasty cold as a headache threatened to split his head in two, but he composed himself as best he could for the task at hand.

Hastily, he inserted his sleeping bag back into his rucksack but hissed at the sensation from his right hand. Bringing it up to examine it, he found that he had unsurprisingly Splinched his right hand's middle and ring fingernails. Ron gave a humorless laugh of relief; it stung like hell but he'd take it over an arm or leg. Casting an unnecessary drying charm on his clothes (as it was still raining), he set off to find their tent with newfound determination.

Nature was unforgiving on him, and Ron was almost sure that it was out to get him. He could've sworn that the rain was falling even _harder _now, and sudden bursts of gust from random directions threatened to knock him flat on his arse. Dark clouds blanketed the sky, obscuring the sun and his ability to get any bearing on the time. It couldn't be _that _late, he told himself unconvincingly, they couldn't have Apparated yet — could they? At the least, Ron was thankful he could see a more considerate distance in the cold light of day but even so, nothing of significance had come into view so far.

Leaves and pebbles crunched underneath, as he all the while scanned either side of the riverbank for signs he knew would not show. Panic fueled his steps now as his stride turned into a jog, into as fast as he could run in his cold-ridden state without face-planting into the slippery mud. Searing stitches formed in his sides as his body screamed in protest of his useless endeavors, but he repeated their names in his head as though it were a fuel to energize him. Mere mental repetition proved to not be enough to satiate his desperation.

"HARRY! HERMIONE!"

Ron began calling their names urgently. Desperate cries were lost amongst the rain and wind pummeling the riverbank, but his resolve would not falter. He bellowed at the top of his lungs until his voice grew hoarse, ran until he felt he would heave, and take a brief respite just to begin the process again just as quickly as he would stop to rest. It was stupid, he knew; he was positive that he had Apparated miles from their location. Every aspect of his body was forced to remain occupied though, for he knew if it didn't he would have to face the stifling reality of the situation.

Momentarily defeated once more, Ron doubled over hands on knees in complete exhaustion. His chest heaved for air, as he took another quick rest. Having traversed what had to be miles still provided no results, and he was sure that a considerable amount of time had passed since he started searching.

Time was ticking away and each minute, every second even, was a precious opportunity lost. Cursing under his breath, he composed himself and scrutinized his surroundings once more. Everything was the same: the trees still have leaves on them, the river is still made out of water — it could've been the location he had slept at.

"Fucking sodding buggering hell…"

Ron set off again. Miles he walked, ran, and yelled, but he was essentially as close to finding them now as when he first began. Then a pang hit him suddenly. These trees were somehow different, he knew, and the river was more familiar… More and more subtle aspects of the environment were coming to him. He broke out into a sprint as a tiny speck of hope bubbled inside of him. Could he be nearing them? It must be at least afternoon, thought Ron, but they had to still be there!

Suddenly, as if he had just so happened to casually be walking by, he found himself at their clearing — this was it, he was sure of it. This was the area where they had set up camp: he recognized how the trees and mountains looked differently from this perspective, even as subtle as the differences were. A part of his brain felt as if it was only affirming what he wanted to so desperately believe, but a larger part was screaming that after treading miles, he had finally found them at long last. The edge of the wards were just ahead of him, and Ron came to an abrupt halt as he approached it.

A few more steps and he'd be past the enchantments, back in the bubble that was their world. He stood there wondering if they were watching him in that moment, scenes of how this confrontation would play out flashing in his mind —

What if they didn't want him? But what if they _did_? Did it even matter? He had just left for a day, not even so, but for a few hours, technically. Hermione had ignored him once for three months in sixth year and he almost _died (_even though the two were completely unrelated, he knew — though they might as well have been). One night without him wouldn't kill her… if she even cared.

Ron shook his head and took a step forward into the clearing. No tent came in sight, only a mound of earth that held signs of recent departure. No Harry or Hermione were watching him from behind the wards, and like that the small bubble of hope died, leaving nothing but dread in its wake. Another step forward, then another, and then his steps broke into strides, into a sprint. Around the perimeter of where the wards would've protected he ran, and back again. And then he began calling their names again, his pleas louder and more desperate than before, willing them for all he was worth to not be gone.

Gripping his wet hair, he spun in a slow circle. This was the correct spot, he was completely sure of that now. Harry and Hermione simply were no longer here. He crossed the patch of dirt that would have been where the tent lay for the umpteenth time, as though doing so would make it magically reappear. Then, completely shell-shocked, Ron dropped there on his knees, as the rain continued falling around him completely indifferent. He didn't feel the rain or the wind.

The painful claws of reality began to sink in, his mind whirring as the enormity of the situation began unfolding before him: They are gone_._ It would be impossible — absolutely impossible — that he would be able to find them again. His chances were as high as the Cannons coming first in the season and either seemed just as likely as happening at the moment. Harry and Hermione were continuing the Horcrux hunt without him and the evidence, or lack thereof, sat right under his arse, on a small patch of earth where a tent should be. Where Harry and Hermione should've been waiting for him…

Ron could faintly feel the cold metal of the locket resting over his heart, the constricting chains wrapped around his skin, and its high-pitched whispers reverberating in his ears.

_"They never wanted you — never needed you, Ronald Weasley," _he could hear echoing in his ears, just as it had done so all those nights in the tent.

Ron pulled at his hair, covered his ears, shook his head vehemently, did anything to fight off the influence of the locket. But he couldn't. For each of his own heartbeats, it was as if he could feel another more sinister, abnormal thump that was infinitesimally off-tempo matching his own. In that moment, Ron knew that even though the locket wasn't physically chained around him, he would never be able to simply lock away those fears — he would _always _be burdened by them, chained to those deep-seated fears. The locket never conceived those thoughts for they were seeds that had been planted long before the wretched thing had ever wrapped its cold steel around him. The locket was only ever the water that harvested those seeds. It was the light that shone towards those dark confines of his mind leaving him nothing but every fear and insecurity to dwell on — and on some level he knew that the locket had to be right… about everything.

_"You were only ever an obstacle that encumbered them. A third wheel and nothing more!" _the voice echoed louder this time.

"No…" Ron muttered weakly, and his voice was raspy from shouting.

His brain betrayed his words though, for he knew that the voice was right. He should be glad he made the first move before they did, that for once in his life had taken the situation into his own hands. Their world wouldn't stop turning just because he wasn't with them. But he didn't feel remotely happy. He only felt hollow, as if there was a literal gaping hole carved into him: A Hermione-shaped hole, and even to some extent the absence of Harry left him feeling less-than-alive. Then, he felt as if _his _own world had stopped turning. Along with the reality of the fact that they were gone, was that she chose Harry. Every suspicion he had learned to tuck away, to delude himself to be mere paranoia was only confirmed now. It only made sense: Harry had only left Ginny to take Hermione…

_"You knew all along, it was right there before your eyes!"_

Harry had never cared for his little sister. That much was certain at how he had scoffed at her punishment in the Forbidden Forest, how he had played with her emotions — manipulating her, snogging her after breaking up to 'protect her', like she was nothing but rubbish! Like she didn't even matter, that she wasn't his sister whose feelings he was toying with! Harry could've literally gotten any girl he wanted; _of course _he would go after Hermione. Seven years of friendship that close wouldn't culminate into nothing, thought Ron bitterly. Obviously, Hermione could only oblige because who would turn down Harry bleeding Potter?

"No," said Ron, his voice low and strained. "_No_ — you're wrong, Harry isn't like that!" his voice growing stronger with every word, convincing the voice as much as he was himself.

_"She chose him. She prefers him!" _

Like daggers, they deflated the mounting confidence over the voice he had managed to build as quickly as it had come. The words rang in Ron's ears until he felt he would go mad; the voice was right. She prefers Harry, she wanted Harry not him, Harry and Hermione, Hermione and Harry. The _Chosen_ One.

He never should have left, though! But she chose Harry. Dumbledore left them a mission! But she chose Harry. They need to destroy the Horcruxes! But she chose Harry. They're gone. And she chose Harry.

He had made the first move indeed, had moved the first pawn, but now the tables have turned: He was in checkmate. He did not know how long he sat there in stunned disbelief, an inner battle raging inside of him as the voice tortured him into madness. Time had kept moving, he knew, only because darkness was descending upon the muddy riverbank. A tree would rustle in the distance or the wind would whistle and Ron's head would snap toward its direction for he could not help but hope that they were still there, that they weren't possibly on the other side of England.

Hours later, the riverbank lay quiet at last. It was well into the evening now, the rain finally having cleared and with it the last of his resolve. Feeling hollow, Ron stood up. He had sat there until he felt utterly numb, until the emotional pain was overcome by the physical as his cold and fatigue finally caught up to him. Mechanically, he walked the circumference of where the wards would have protected them, studying the area as memories came to him.

Harry would be sitting in that spot, imagined Ron, as he absently played with Dumbledore's Snitch; Hermione would be at the entrance of the tent, no doubt engrossed in some book; and he would've been behind her subtly watching, stealing furtive glances as he studied her body language. How she would tilt her head and her brown curls would sway when she came across something curious, or lean forward as a small 'oh!' escaped her when she made some sort of breakthrough. One time she had actually squealed and jumped at something she was reading. Truly mental that one, thought Ron, the only reaction he got from reading was putting him to sleep.

He gave a sad chuckle at the memory. Tears were beginning to sting his eyes but he wiped them away furiously, cursing at nothing in particular for wanting to cry. The muttered swears escalated until he was screaming at the top of his lungs, nothing but the surrounding darkness as an audience, as rage began to bubble inside him once more. And then he felt utterly exhausted, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it came. He was knackered and needed to find a place to rest before he collapsed on this damn riverbank again.

Could he Apparate safely in his state? Where could he even go? The obvious answer came to Ron: His family, of course. Of course Harry was right—that he'd go running back to them. He groaned and shook his head. No, he couldn't possibly face _any _of his family. What would his parents think were he to show up on the doorstep of the Burrow by himself? They'd assume the worst most likely, that Harry and Hermione were — _No_, the mere thought was painful enough to twist his stomach into knots.

Fred and George's flat was out of the question; they would make his life a miserable living hell if they learned he had abandoned them. They'd never let him live it down. There was Percy, thought Ron derisively, but who cares what he thinks or does, he's a bloody tosser — he had as much a chance of Percy helping him as he did Charlie at the moment.

If Ginny somehow found out he had left them, he was sure he'd be on the receiving end of her fury. She knows far too many hexes for her own good, he thought. And what with risking her hide working with Dumbledore's Army with Neville and Luna, if he had to see the disappointment etched on her features for all that work in vain because of him, because he fucked up, _again… _Ron ran frustrated hands through his hair as swears escaped under his breath. Like always, he thought angrily, he fucked up. Fuck up after fuck up, story of his life. If anyone in his family found out, the information would surely spread through the Order and then Lupin… Tonks… Bill…

Ron sighed sadly. Bill, his oldest brother, the one it seemed he had to prove his worth the most to, who he had looked up to as a hero since before he could remember. Bill, the cream of the crop, Head Boy, married to a part-bleeding-veela, as close to perfect as one could get; and himself, average marks across the board, sidekick, and not just until recently, a complete and utter _failure_. Bill would not be remotely impressed, not just for the fact that he left them, but because of Dumbledore's mission. Mind, he doesn't know the exact details, but he'd be disappointed — disgusted even, perhaps, nonetheless.

So now, thought Ron darkly, he was essentially friendless and familyless out on a cold, muddy riverbank slowly slipping out of consciousness, _absolutely bloody __brilliant._

He needed to make some sort of decision; Ron weighed the options in his head. Each time, for one reason or another, he would always come back to Bill. Bill, despite how the age difference left their relationship somewhat farther apart than Ron wanted, had always been at least decent to him. He had always been sympathetic of him for being the youngest brother. If not his parents, Bill would be the first to come to his aid whenever the twins' pranks had gotten out of hand, or would be the shoulder to lean on whenever he wanted to talk when they were younger. But would Bill understand this time around? This was no longer him being just the youngest brother — this was him having run out on his friends, the mission, failing those two people that had needed him most… If they even needed him — wanted him? Ron shook those thoughts from his head, angry at himself for constantly dwelling on them.

He spun in a slow circle, taking in one last memory of the clearing. Just hours ago their tent had lay here, this was where Harry and Hermione were eating, talking … being just about brilliant together without him. That should've been enough to prove that they didn't need him — right? But what if they actually did need him? He cleared his head and closed his eyes, focusing his mind and the little of his energy. Hermione's voice chimed in his ears, drowning out the nagging whispers of the locket, as if she were reciting the three D's to him, and he allowed the smallest of watery smiles. He Disapparated on the spot for he knew he didn't have to leave the wards this time; that bubble, their world, had been taken with them, moved on — without him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_My first dive into the world of fanfiction, what do you think? I'm my own worst critic but if you happen to like what I got going don't be afraid to leave what you think - any constructive criticism negative or positive is good. I'm really fascinated by JK Rowling's Ronald Weasley because he's such an underdog with so many underlying insecurities and layers but overall, in the end, he gets the girl of his dreams and pretty much everything he ever wanted. Do I do his character justice? I'll leave that up to you, the reader._


End file.
